Alphabet Soup
by Kyrial Halcoryn
Summary: Alphabet soup! Life, love and romance with Heroes in a series of drabbles, one for each letter of the alphabet. Mainly romance and humour. Chapter 5: E is for Electric, and Peter's feeling less than charitable.
1. A is for AR

**A is for Artificial Reality**

**Pairing: **Matt/Mohinder, Molly/Micah, Peter/Sylar.

**AN:** Ah, the good ol' days when Baron Rivendare was the most headachey boss you'd ever face...

* * *

Matt glanced across at his friends. "Are we ready?"

Peter groaned. "For the last time, yes. Now can we get _on _with it?"

"Fine, fine," Matt Parkman grumbled. He wiggled his fingers like a pianist about to perform, as his hands lowered down to the keyboard.

Matt, Mohinder, Peter and Sylar were currently on the floor of the apartment supposedly owned by Peter Petrelli, although personally, Matt suspected that if Sylar spent any more time there, people would begin to suspect they were married. _Oh, wait... they are married. Almost forgot._

Peter snickered as he used Micah's ability to program an action for his avatar that Matt seriously doubted had ever been officially implemented into the game _World of Warcraft,_ and if it had, had probably been banned approximately 5 minutes later when somebody had found out. Quite frankly, he wouldn't have been surprised.

"We're still short by one person, though," Sylar mentioned, blushing.

Mohinder considered this whilst watching a female Night Elf Druid shimmy on by outside Stratholme's entrance. "Micah plays," he mused. "I could ask if he wants to join..."

Sylar snorted. "With us?"

"He plays with Molly normally." Mohinder's fingers flew over the keyboard, tapping a message out to his adoptive daughter's boyfriend. Come to think of it, they were probably together right now.

After a moment's hesitation, he added, "He's just coming. So's Molly."

"_Actually_ coming in real life, or virtual coming?" Peter asked warily, halting his druid's movement and sitting it down.

"Virtual coming." Mohinder leaned back, whilst his human priest shifted slightly on its feet.

"We've only got enough room in the party for one more person, though..."

"I never even knew Molly _had _a Warcraft account," Matt said.

Mohinder smacked him, gently. "She's our _daughter, _and you didn't even know?"

"Hey," Sylar chided gently, "enough with the violence."

"What level?" Peter asked absent-mindedly, switching out equipment.

"Uh, I don't actually know," Mohinder replied, embarrased.

_"Guys?" _Micah's voice came through the speakers. _"I'm a bit busy, it's just going to be Molly doing it right now. 'Kay?"_

"Sure," Matt replied, somewhat disappointed. He'd rather have the technopath, quite frankly, for obvious reasons. Besides, he'd only ever seen his adoptive daughter playing once! She went on dates with Micah all the time, although that was probably better...

_"Hi guys!" _came Molly's voice. _"You're just outside, right?"_

"Yeah..."

All four men stared as a female level 80 Draenei Mage came into view.

_"Uh... you do realise you're not supposed to be able to have Alliance and Horde members interacting peacefully, right?"_

...

_"Guys?"_

_..._

_"Hellooo? Dad #1? Dad #2? Peter? Gabriel?"_

Matt cried quietly in the corner.


	2. B is for Bachelorhood

**B is for Bachelorhood**

**Pairing:** Pylar.

**AN: **Contains nekkid Peter. In no detail.

* * *

Peter stared around the flat as the woman continued to chatter on about the wonderful view.

"It's already hooked up to the Internet, and phone and broadband costs are included in the price, of course," she continued, then gave an expansive sweep of the arms. "Well? Do you like it?"

It wasn't a _bad_ flat, as flats went. The landlord hadn't attempted anything too fancy, or painted the walls orange or anything like that. It was functional, clean, walls a shade of Magnolia Peach Blossom, had a reasonable kitchen and a bedroom with a bathroom just next door, as well as a carpeted 'chilling room' just next to the kitchen.

"Yeah, it's great," he replied, then flashed his winning smile at her.

"I'll take it."

* * *

"Wow, this is dull," Sylar commented as the door was let in. "Needs more... _colour_. More personality. Breaking in. This looks unlived-in."

Peter rolled his eyes. "It's better than the last apartment."

Sylar snorted. "A _cave_ would have had more decoration than that apartment, Pete. Seriously, you left all your stuff in boxes. _Boxes._ You didn't even bother to unpack!"

"Yeah, well..." Peter retorted defensively. "It's not my fault I was busy."

"Right." Sylar gave the walls an appraising look. "It needs more red."

He raised an eyebrow. "Red. Right."

"No, just a little red. A wide stripe down the wall with, oh, I don't know... Paintings - " He gestured, sketching out a rectangle in his vision. " - maybe I could borrow some..."

"And where were you planning to borrow these paintings from?" Peter asked, folding his arms. "The Louvre?"

"The Mona Lisa would sit nicely there," Sylar noted absent-mindedly. "We'd have to _find _it first, of course, since the one on display's a fake, but still..."

"Please tell me you're kidding," Peter said weakly. "Of all the pieces of artwork you want in the apartment, you pick the most recognisable thing in the _world_?"

"Well," Sylar mused, "there are other ways an apartment can have personality if you don't like paintings."

"Flowers?"

He pulled a face. "No."

"Ice sculptures?"

"Not unless you want flooding afterwards."

"Massive paintings of the apocalypse on the floor?"

Sylar groaned.

"Well, what, then?"

"_This._" He pointed to the window, and smirked.

"What?" Peter turned around. "I don't see - " he began, before Sylar grabbed him around the waist.

The door to the bedroom flicked open with telekinesis, then shut again.

* * *

Noah knocked on the door to the apartment. "Peter?" he called, wondering whether he was in.

No answer.

He knocked again. This time, the door swung gently open. _Not a good sign._ Noah advanced cautiously, hand lowering to the stun-gun.

There was a slight noise. Probably somebody'd broken into Peter's apartment and -

"I'll get it," came the muffled sound.

Noah barely had time to react as the door swung open, to reveal... Peter. Quite a lot of Peter, actually, although, in fairness, he had a sheet half-wrapped around his waist.

The door swung open a little wider to reveal the _other_ occupant of the room, who stared.

"Uh... Noah, hi? How did you get in?"

No response. Noah continued to stare, as the sheet slipped slightly.

"...I think you broke him with your manliness."

* * *

...and THAT, kids, is why you should _always_ lock the door.


	3. C is for Cryo

**C is for Cryo**

**Pairings: **Pylar, Claire/Gretchen.

**AN: **They really need better insurance...

* * *

"This has got to be the stupidest idea you've ever had. _Including_ the geekcon visit."

"C'mon..."

"No. I refuse."

Sylar folded his arms, glaring at Peter for good measure.

"But you'd be good at it!" Peter begged.

"No," he replied firmly.

Peter employed the Weapon of Doom (TM), also known as the Puppy Dog Face. It was exceedingly effective, had almost certainly ended nuclear wars in parallel universes somewhere and could probably have made Dr. Gregory House weep if he ever happened to see it.

"_Please?_"

Sylar's heart melted.

He stuck his tongue out childishly at the other man. "Fine. But you know what that means."

"I'm fine with it," Peter countered. "It was _you_ who refused to do the ice cubes. And they need to be appropriately shaped."

Sylar stared at his boyfriend in growing horror.

Peter employed the Evil Smile, which meant he was plotting something, and leaned forward to whisper something in Sylar's ear.

"Fine," he said grudgingly. "But if anyone else so much as looks at you, there _will_ be blood. And not just the 'ooh, I cut my pinky' amount of blood."

"Yes!" Peter yelled, punching the air as Sylar sighed.

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

"Hi, what can I get you lovely ladies?"

Claire looked up from Gretchen at -

"What the _hell,_ Peter?!" she yelled.

Gretchen looked up, startled, to glance at the cute brunette wearing a waitress outfit and with a notepad in hand. Also, definitely female. Yup. _Not_ her uncle.

"Uh... Claire?" Gretchen tried. "Why're you calling - "

The waitress sighed. "Could you keep it down?"

"Why're you - " Claire gestured silently at everything.

"It was the only way I could get him to be the bartender. He still won't make the banana-shaped ice cubes," Peter explained.

Gretchen stared. "So you're actually - "

"Yes."

There was silence before Gretchen broke it with, "That has got to be the most - "

"_Don't say it._"

"Uh... I think I need a vodka and coke. Gretchen?"

"...but the _organs..._" she muttered, making a vague gesture in midair.

"Two vodkas with coke."

" 'kay." Peter scribbled the order down on the notepad before walking over to the next table. Claire noted the Sylar was following the progress of his boyfriend - boyfriend? Was that even _appropriate_ right now? - across the tables. He looked annoyed, especially with the looks more than one man was giving Peter.

"Uh... we should probably leave." One of the customers winked at Peter, hand moving to some place more intimate than intended.

"What?" Said hand was promptly jerked off by telekinesis with a flick of Peter's wrist.

"_Really_ leave. Right now." Claire watched as Sylar stood up with a black look on his face and left the bar to walk over to the table, where the customer was looking extremely put out and still attempting to chat up Peter, at the imminent loss of his brain.

She grabbed Gretchen's wrist and pulled, dragging her to the door before anything exploded.

"Hey!"

Claire panted as she sprinted for the alleyway leading to the main street. _Hopefully_ the blast radius wouldn't be big enough to take the whole street with them, although where psychopathic and megalomaniacal mass-murderers with abilities were involved romantically, it was always better to be safe than sorry.

She started counting under her breath as Gretchen followed her.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine - _

There was a jet of emerald light, and a man burst out through the concrete wall of the building, to be followed by an extremely pissed Sylar.

"Sorry about that." Claire thumbed desperately for a taxi, while pedestrians acted typically; screaming, yelling, dialing 999 and running away. "I promise we'll get a normal date. Somehow."

"Is anything _ever _normal where your family's around?" Gretchen muttered.

"There's a taco place down the street."


	4. D is for Death

**D is for Death  
**

**Pairing: **Gretchen/Claire. Angst.

**AN:** This isn't humour. It gets put in because it got stuck in my head.

* * *

Claire opened her eyes.

There was pain.

Well, _that_ was unexpected.

She relished it, though, after all those years she'd been unable to have that feeling. How long had it been... But there was pain.

There was a sickening sound as she raised her head. The last person to have the honour of killing her had been a hit-and-run driver, some idiot in a four-by-four who probably hadn't even stopped to see whether she was alright. It was a morgue, and by the looks of it, somebody had already started. She looked to the side, pushing a rib back into its proper position.

_Ah._

And there was the offending stick that had, up until quite recently, been embedded in her skull.

Well, _this_ brought back memories if nothing else did.

The door opened, and Claire swore mentally, eyes flicking across the room for a hiding place as she swung her legs off the table, prepared to sprint despite the ripped jeans and T-shirt.

She stared into a familiar face, who looked startled, and considerably older than she remembered.

"Gretchen?"

"Claire." The voice was hoarse. "I - I didn't expect to see you here."

"What're you doing?" Claire asked awkwardly.

"...I work here now. For the police. Moved to Forensics. You know?"

There was a pause.

"...I thought you might be gone. For good."

"I can't die. You'd have to destroy my brain completely."

"I know."

Claire averted her gaze. The woman standing in front of her wasn't the Gretchen _she_ knew and remembered. _Those_ days, with the road-trip, the carnival, that summer of hostels and a journey halfway across North America just for fun and games, before graduation had hit and they'd moved on together. Then moved apart, as Gretchen grew older and Claire never would.

"It wouldn't have worked out anyway," Gretchen stated clinically, matter-of-fact, like a forty-five-year-old giving consolation to her eighteen-year-old daughter after another heartbreak.

"I know." The words sticking in her throat.

_Does that make it better?_

"I'd better leave before somebody starts wondering why there's a missing corpse," she continued dryly.

"I'll sort out the paperwork. Do some shuffling. Nobody'll notice much."

Claire reached for a shirt, one that wasn't bloody, and a pair of trousers that aren't quite the right size but that would have to do.

"I hope I won't see you again." And there was that damn smile on her face again, awkward and still the same although nothing else is.

"Take care."


	5. E is for Electric

**E is for Electric**

**Pairings: **Pylar

**AN: **_That_ song. The one that makes me think of Elle. (Do they have IKEA in America, by the way? I just think it sounds better than 'flat-pack'.)

Also, mourning the loss of Heroes. Why? _Whyyyy?_

* * *

"Well?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." Sylar grumbled as he heaved the sofa through the doorway. It was extremely tempting to just deconstruct the damn thing and put it all back together using intuitive aptitude and telekinesis, but that would probably reignite the urge for brains and cause him to make a terrible mess of the new carpet. The alternative was IKEA, which defied even Sylar's supernatural skills to piece together, or putting it through the windows using a crane instead at ridiculous cost.

Money won out, despite his argument that they could just _make_ more money using alchemy. This had resulted in a glare and a discussion about the long-term effects on the fiscal system. Attempting to persuade Peter that using their powers that way would _not_ in fact cause a repeat of the Great Depression resulted in the ultimate weapon in the Peter Petrelli weapons arsenal being broken out.

Yeah. Puppy dog eyes.

So he and Peter were attempting to get an extremely stylish leather sofa through a somewhat less stylish doorway, in a completely normal human way.

"Why the hell did you have to choose a fourth-floor apartment?"

"Hey, it was a good idea at the time..."

He finally managed to elbow the stupid thing through the doorway just as the lights cut out.

Sylar swore, loudly, and dropped his end on his foot, causing him to swear again.

"You okay?"

"Obviously. The leather might not be, though." He glanced downwards. "Stupid generator," he muttered, just before making one last effort, shoving the sofa through the doorway.

The lights didn't come back on after fifteen minutes, causing Peter to let out his breath in an irritated huff.

"You'd think with the rent we pay they'd have a backup generator or something," he muttered grumpily. "_And _I was going to start making dinner."

"We could always fix it for them."

"Too much effort. Besides, they're not paying us to do it," he grumbled.

Sylar's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Why, Peter, I never knew you could be so un-charitable."

"Obviously you're rubbing off on me."

He smirked.


End file.
